


transition

by pendules



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Deathfic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendules/pseuds/pendules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Churches are still brutal. Smiles are still warm. Tears are inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	transition

i.

 _Now, come one, come all to this tragic affair..._

 

The world is mourning a man. This man wasn't a Pope or a Politician or some renowned Artist. His religion was fame. His Constitution each blade of grass under cleats and fingers and intertwined bodies. His beliefs love and unwarranted happiness and endless hope. His inspiration his children. His only masterpiece a smile or a twinkle in blue eyes. His—

 _no_

 _it isn't_

 _it's over_

 _it's UnbearableUnthinkableUnchangeable_

The world's screwed you over again.

For the last time.

And it's all over.

 

ii.

 _Burning on, just like a match you strike to incinerate  
The lives of everyone you knew_

 

(The world is mourning a man.)

The world is mourning one man. You are mourning another. You know. You don't know. Maybe in death everyone is whole. Maybe all the parts, the public speeches and the whispered, unseen declarations are all as one, in the light lines of a pale, sleeping face. (Maybe it hasn't changed _you_ either. You remember being exactly the same twenty years before staring, with chattering teeth, wordless at a steely, cold coffin.) Churches, you still think, are the most terrifying places. You cannot find comfort there. It is inevitably impossible. Beauty, you think, was not meant to be found in the pristine confines of a majestic edifice. You've seen it, seen real beauty. This isn't it. This is, maybe, the place where it begins and ends, where it is sought, where it is hoped for. It doesn't exist here though. It feels strangely empty. Maybe it's only full when hearts, heavy or light enter it. (Maybe all it does is drain everything out of those hearts. It scares you now even more than it did when you were a child.)

And maybe you're just hating everything right now. Hating what you're in love with, hating _being_ in love. With life, with everything you're going to lose, everything you've already lost.

They talk of Accomplishments and Perseverance and Loyalty and words that are meant to be written in history books and inscribed on memories and stated in front of crowds; but not meant to be contained in a soft gaze, not needed where a look can convey everything. Such words are meaningless. They weep. You hear and see everything—your senses are strangely attuned—yet it means nothing.

(Your voice is slightly challenging, not impolite but that much more testy.

"Íker Casillas."

He reaches out his hand and there's that goddamned smile. The one you'll grow to know so very well. The one you'll eventually take to staring across rooms or football pitches to create. The one that starts with a slight curve of the corners of his mouth until it's all in his eyes and you can taste it on his lips.

"David," he says simply.

"I know who you are."

"No. You don't." A tiny shake of his head. He looks apologetic.

You don't find out who he is until much later. [Maybe too late.])

 

iii.

 _I see you lying next to me  
With words I thought I'd never speak  
Awake and unafraid, asleep or dead_

 

The world was mourning a man. Before you even knew. You were on an international call. You lose. You forget you lose. You land inSpain and it's there splashed across all the papers. You remember again.

(Losing; pure, unadulterated _loss_ was unheard of to him. He acknowledged it, yes, said _tough luck, lads._ But it never lasted. He didn't wallow in it, not like you. Didn't get infuriated and want to throw things, make a mess of your house. He said _for what have we lost, really? We've gained too._ At first you probably wanted to punch a dent into his refined features at that. It was hard, trusting him, trusting his words but you did. And you're glad you did afterwards when he kisses you and smiles and says _you worry too much._ )

You sit in a corner for thirty three hours. There were calls, maybe the occasional knock on the door. You turn all the lights off and let it all slip away. You don't drink like you might have thought you would. You have the awful feeling that that would be the end of you. That you would end up crying like a child, uncontrollable sobs that won't stop. (He said you shouldn't worry so much... _shouldn't worry so much..._ )

Xabi calls you minutes before noon and (he's the only one who knew, the only one who knows) whispers in steady throaty Spanish. And he doesn't have much experience with death either. Maybe it's better that way. Doesn't say sorry. Says _ihavenoideawhattosay_ and _it'stheworstthingthatcouldhappentoanybody_ and _ireallydon'tknowwhattosay._ ( _Why did you call then?_ ) Xabi. Incoherent. It probably hits you then. How fucking horrible the entire thing is, how utterly terrifying. You say _I loved him, I really did_ and (this is why he called; not for him to talk, for you to) you can feel his nod through the phone. _I know you did. I always knew._ And then the climax, the moment of truth. _You'll be ok. He'll want you to be ok._

 _Yeah. Yeah._

 _He'll want me to_ —

(You register vaguely later your use of the past tense and you think maybe you're better at this than you thought and you haven't changed, not really. And that hurts more than anything.

 _I_ loved _him._ )

 

***

iv.

 _And though you're dead and gone, believe me  
Your memory will carry on_

 

( _He'll want me to_ ) Sit in a cold, cold church. See. Register. Don't acknowledge. It becomes like a steady rhythm after a while. It feels like you've been sitting there forever, hands braced against wood.

Englishmen... Spaniards... other indistinguishable Foreigners... Diplomats... and kids... goddamned kids...

You wonder what he wants of them. All of them.

(You flee after Real loses another one, gives up another chance for some long-awaited, consecrated success. You don't feel it that much this time. Maybe it's the promises of numbness yet to come or the booze in the backseat of his car or his silence as he drives. Not a gloomy silence. Not an empty one either. A calming one. You've missed those. When you were young, you used to sit on the beach and it was just you and the sea. You and the sea. And the impending darkness closing in until there was a faceless shout of ' _Venga adentro. Es tarde._ '

Now it's you and a still, glassy lake. And him.

You get pretty pissed. You wrap an arm around his waist and rest your head on his shoulder, look at him with a dreamy smile. He touches your hair, presses a kiss against your cheek. Moves away slightly making you jerk upright. He laughs at you; you curse him. You ask him what he wants from you in a tone that suggests he has it all already; he can take his pick. Like you're some fucking teenage girl. He says he wants you to be young. Because you are. Says he wants you to forget about old men, forget about him. You say not yet. You kiss him then and he lets you.

He drags you back to your place and you can swear you feel his eyes on you all night as you sleep. Maybe you only dreamt it.)

To go on? To be strong? Like he obviously always was. To forget?

 _no_

 _never_

You pray to whichever God can hear you in His chambers that you won't.

 

v.

 _(So say goodbye) to the vows you take  
(And say goodbye) to the life you make  
(And say goodbye) to the hearts you break_

 

( _He'll want me to._ )

Graveyards appeal to you much more than churches. Natural and fresh and alive. Ironic, yes. But you always get the feeling of rebirth, of new life from them. It's sunny. Leaves and grass glow fluorescent under the feet of a solemn procession. (And maybe knowing its true nature, it's easier to think of it this way. Easier to give in to the illusions.)

You unclench your hands from each other slightly. You notice marks from nails digging into flesh on both of them. You look up at the sky through most of it. There seems to be something different in it above these parts. Like something lurking, unseen. Invisible, thick fog. And maybe it isn't as picturesque as you imagined it was. That's just there to lure you into false security. Maybe the stench of death rises up to the heavens, coats the air in darkness. _Hidden_ darkness. Just a tiny feeling in your gut as the time comes. A shiver. A crawl of the skin.

It happens. It's over. Before you can even think about it. You think of risking a tear. You don't. You just stand; staring with clear, open eyes. And there's nothing there to comfort you. It's only vast emptiness. In the light of the sun, everything is clear. More scary than anything the merciless church could throw at you. It's real. It's over. It's too much and it's nothingness. A gap. And the hugest part of you. All at once.

You go home. Starting over, moving on won't come for days months years after. You won't rush it. (And maybe you'll never be as brave. Never. Maybe that's just how it is. Maybe it's just something we talk about and never do.)

 

vi.

 _Give me a shot to remember  
And you can take all the pain away from me_

 

( _He won't want me to do this._ ) You say you can't do it anymore. It's done. It's over. _overoveroverover._ You can almost feel a stare on your back as you walk out of that office. It shouldn't be there. You have stupid mental arguments. ("I'm doing this because of you." "No, you're not. I never wanted this." "Well, you never wanted to fucking _die_ either.") Some other time, some other place you might have thought you were going completely insane. You know it's not your mind you lost back then though. You haven't lost your heart either; you've felt heartbreak before and it isn't this. You've simply lost your hope; your _reason_ to love, your _reason_ to think.

You return to your apartment. You stand facing the refrigerator in the kitchen, palms flat on the wooden surface of the counter behind you. You look at it, at the crude but unmistakable heart created by magnets splayed across the white. (And he was always rearranging things in your kitchen, telling you that you should put some _real_ food in your cupboards for a change.)

You get this sudden plunging feeling somewhere deep down. As in _It's time._ And three weeks after the rest of the world you, Íker Casillas lets it all go. Breaks down. Falls apart. Whatever they call it these days.

The alcohol burns your throat in the most pleasant way. Hands and feet rest on cold tile. You tilt your head back, eyes to the ceiling, like someone seeking the divine and you drown in it. There's nothing to pull you to safety. You won't let it anyway.

You half-crawl into bed, pulling off your clothes. You spill half a bottle of the colourless liquid on the white sheets. They smell of vodka and tears for days afterwards.

(Maybe you're ready now.)

 

***

vii.

 _I will not kiss you_

 _'Cause the hardest part of this  
Is leaving you_

 

You go back out to that place. The place where the sun never stops shining. Branches and leaves casting their shadows onto grey rock.

You graze your fingertips on words engraved on stone. You sit on the grass. You look at a single, semi-wilted rose, lying there, seemingly marking the spot. You feel like waiting there, staring at it until it withers completely.

You leave after several hours, with promises in your light steps.

 _I will._ (try to be brave, feign bravery, learn how to brave)

 _But I won't._ (forget, hate, wilt like a rose in the sun)

You look at the sky. You close your eyes and there is that smile.

 _I love you. Still._ You were right. It hasn't changed you. _He_ changed you. It only took losing him to realise that.

 

viii.

 _So shut your eyes  
Kiss me goodbye  
And sleep_

 

You feel that same stare from before as you sleep that night. This time, it's less imagined though.

 

ix.

 _You're just a sad song with nothing to say_

 

Later, as you go back, back to the world; as Raúl places a sympathetic hand on your arm as if saying _you're back with us, are you?_ ; as you visit his house; as you play your next match, you realise that there is one irrefutable truth: You don't 'move on.' (You wonder what that means exactly at times.) You never forget. You are torn somewhere in between acceptance, acknowledgment and comprehension. There's no order to it in your mind. It's never that black and white. (And comprehension is impossible in this case, acknowledgment is more painful than anything, acceptance is something you'll hate yourself forever for.) It's hard to fathom that it ever is. But you don't think about that much. It never was about that. _That_ you can forget about. Some things have changed. Some basic ones never will. It's the same. And of course, it's not. It is your transition period. And you never again feel as alone as you did before.

**Author's Note:**

> All song lyrics by [My Chemical Romance](http://mychemicalromance.com/):  
> i. _The End_  
>  ii. _Helena_  
>  iii. _Famous_ _Last Words_  
>  iv. _Welcome to the Black Parade  
> _ v. _To The End_  
>  vi. _The Sharpest Lives_  
>  vii. _Cancer_  
>  viii. _Sleep_  
>  ix. _Disenchanted_  
> 


End file.
